


Rarášek

by depresane



Category: Budka Suflera (Band), Original Work
Genre: BDSM self-discovery, Based on a song, Bonfires, Class Differences, Culture Shock, F/F, Ghost Sex, Haunted Houses, Hiking, I did come up with actual kinks but I'm gonna publish them separately to keep this work rated M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Injury, Implied/referenced Breakup, LGBTQ Themes, Mentioned Injury, Morning After, Nobility, One Night Stands, Paraphilias, Supernatural Elements, Thunder and Lightning, Violins, ah yes the shameful kink of being listened to unconditionally for hours :F, dramatic monologues spoken by a modern character - somehow, ghost - Freeform, implied/referenced age gap, last but not least the romanticised kink of receiving financial support from the wealthy :FFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-01-28 21:29:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21398941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/depresane/pseuds/depresane
Summary: She looked for distraction and temporary relief; she found... um... exactly that.(If you've ever dealt with thunder in mountains, take a breath and prepare.)
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The following is inspired by a song "Jest taki samotny dom" (There's a certain abandoned house), and by "inspired" I mean I'm taking many liberties with it.  
When the ghost introduces herself, her name (which I made up) is spelt differently to give you a phonetic guide; after that, it's spelt consistently like a Polish name.

Vendula greatly underestimated how much time she would spend hiking. Orange sky and navy blue clouds warned her with an unforgiving delay. She analysed rocks below and began descending. She hurried not, despite a distant thunder clearing its throat. No lightnings yet.  
“The app claimed it would rain at ten. Great.”  
As her boots reached a flatter, safer surface, she felt goosebumps beneath her checked shirt. Freezing wind flipped her short hair like a page.  
“Yup. Won’t buy that gel anymore,” she decided in advance. A backpack slipped from her shoulders, as her intention was, and hit a stone with a crumpling sound. One sweep of a zipper later, the backpack opened its mouth, revealing a cotton blouse.  
The thunder grumbled louder.  
Vendula shoved her head inside and through the blouse, not noticing that its print was ‘gone.’ She fixed her hair to see better, retrieved her rope, packed it carelessly, closed the backpack and put it back on.  
She followed a mark on rocks next to a road.  
Then, a flash startled her. She counted to nine when the thunder roared.  
“Nine times three hundred and thirty… Seventy… Twenty seven plus two… That’s… That’s almost three kilometres.” It dawned on her. “Bad.”  
She kept walking and calculating. A mere minute later, she had to use a flashlight. The wind showed no mercy, and the thunder scared her with a loud shout. The tempest got dangerously close to her.  
A forest was rocking chaotically in front of her. She knew she wouldn’t return to shelter in time, so there was no point in entering the woods. She looked around and spotted a field to her left.  
“Around forty metres,” she estimated, “Let’s go.”  
She ran wherever the rocks and grass allowed her, and marched when the ground was uneven. A drop fell on her nose. Another one shattered on a stone near her. Yet another thunder announced its presence and a downpour followed. She took off her backpack once again to settle it on her head.  
She made it to the field: a yard with tall grass and scurvy-grass. A manor house with a gambrel roof was covered in moss and partially ruined to Vendula’s right, brownish bricks exposed. Even more rubble was lying behind the building as far as she could tell.  
“I don’t deserve that much luck,” she thought, “Why does the Lord focus so much on my well-being when there are other people ou… Ah, stop that, Ven! Appreciate the moment! You won’t get soaked at least.”  
A door was long gone, just a hinge hanging on one nail. The floor was crumbling from plentiful holes as woodworms have been digesting it. No paint on the walls, except for two vulgar graffiti. The stained glass high above her head prevailed despite time and the weather, while the low windows stood naked. With no furniture left, leaking ceiling, and whistling cracks, the building seemed to exist solely for the reckless youth that cannot imagine leisure without alcohol.  
Vendula sent a text message and turned her phone off. Her hands started to twitch. She found a fireplace, but she could hear birds tweeting inside the chimney. She turned around and walked towards a dirty corner, where no wind seemed to pass through. A smell made her take two steps back.  
“I guess this is the best spot.” She sighed and gazed at the remains of the floor.

The half-eaten planks refused to ignite, so she dived into her backpack and grabbed a comic book. Its pages weren’t slippery smooth, and its content only angered her, so it worked perfectly for her bonfire. As she was ripping the comic apart, she recalled the exact plot devices that disappointed her.  
“Of course she’s young and short. Of course she feels sorry for defending herself against the kidnapper. Of course her workmate is a nasty trash-talker. Of course the creep is presented as the right and only option for her. And naturally, once she tasted sex she stopped being an awkward cinnamon roll. Aaand masturbation is evil. Obviously.”  
One by one, the pages vanished in a flash of flames. She smirked blissfully.  
“She should have run away to Dorothea. That chick was sweet, and she respected her shyness.”  
The planks gave in to the heat and glowed in bright red. Vendula unpacked the rope and sat on it. Watching the fire, she hummed Gyöngyhajú Lány, then Celkem Jiná. The shivers ceased.  
A lightning hit a mountain.  
She remained afraid, but the warmth and the colours of the bonfire soothed her. It simply felt good.

One of the birds sang like a violin.

Eerily akin to violin.

Vendula’s eyes grew in shock. It _was_ a violin, though she didn’t recognise Haydn’s piece: Violin Concerto in C Major, the second movement. She stood up. The fire lingered in her eyesight, leaving dark spots that followed her wherever she looked. Peering didn’t help her.  
She spoke, “Hello?” She heard a grating: a startled hand twitched with the bow. She rushed to the hall. She saw nobody but continued, “Are you also a hiker? A hiker with an instrument, I mean, are you a tourist? A casual… fan of Nordic walking?”  
The melody resumed. Vendula took a couple more steps… just to realize the violin was playing in the previous room all along. She hopped back. Examining her surroundings, she checked the windows with the stained glass.  
Red, blue, yellow, pink, and green flakes were falling gently, leaving the windows clear. The petals stuck to the walls and the floor, adding shapes and colours, forming a chair, creating a painting, giving birth to candles and oil lamps… The grey and dusty ruin was transforming into a place of wealth and luxury, where one could disappear in countless books, trace patterns on vases, swim in cushions or, indeed, show off their musical skills to strangers.  
A ginger woman in a plain dress immediately noticed Vendula’s dyed hair. She moved the bow away and straightened her neck.  
“No proszę. Coraz więcej dam z krótkimi włosami.”  
Vendula opened her mouth and froze, unable to speak.  
The lady switched to Czech. “Not many people can hear me. It appears to be that you’re one of the lucky.”  
Vendula loosened her scarf. “Oh, you can s… I’m not sure if I’m lucky… or hallucinating.”  
“There have been times when two people in a group could see me. It only complicated the situation.”  
“I can imagine.” Vendula realized she was counting the ghost’s freckles. She lowered her head and folded her fingers. “But this illusion… this room… it isn’t helping me.”  
The woman nodded, then swung the bow. The colours faded and vanished behind Vendula, where the bonfire was flickering.  
She looked back and forth, comparing. “Uh… Thanks?”  
“No problem. What is your name?”  
“Vendula.”  
“Mine is Vrotsmira. You can go sit down again.”  
“… just like that?”  
“And burn as many floor planks as you need.” She smiled and resumed playing.  
A thunder growled quietly, as if muffled by the memory of Wrocmira’s room.


	2. Chapter 2

Vendula wandered, listening to the piece, adding planks to the fire, and examining the vapourescent items. She assumed the majority of the books to be written in Hungarian and Polish, while effortlessly identifying several French and Czech titles. Political essays and light romances stood next to one another in no identifiable order. One of the vases held hyacinths and lavenders, presumably grown at garden. In the painting, a crowned griffin was holding a sabre and three flowers – perhaps it represented the spectre's house, or maybe a noble family which befriended her. Two pocket watches rested with their chains on an end table.  
Subconsciously, she was looking for confirmation: _she has to be one of us_. Thoughts kept piling up, “No portrait of her husband… Could have been in a different room, though. Did he know? Did he have his own affair? How did they stay out of trouble? … By residing in the middle of nowhere, duh.”  
She reconnected with reality because Wrocmira finished performing the piece.  
“Do you play any instruments, Ven?”  
“From time to time. I’ve got an accordina. Uh, it’s quite modern.”  
“Mm. What is your occupation?”  
“I teach natural science at primary school.”  
“And which sight pleases you the most?”  
Her eyebrows bent downwards. “_Sight?_ I’d say, mountains; they’re majestic.”  
Wrocmira smirked. “No, Marine-Haired. In people.”  
She chuckled. “Ah! Then, I can’t really pick one thing. Forelocks, noses, jawlines… and, um, arms… And the parts that… I think, used to be scandalous in your times. When were you alive?”  
“In the nineteenth century.”  
“Then, I’m right, it’ll sound inappropriate when I mention calves.”  
Although Wrocmira didn’t breathe anymore, she raised her chest and hid her face behind her right hand. Having giggled, she decided to put her violin down. “I admire the straightforward approach of modern ladies. My apologies, I’m still getting accustomed to it.”  
Vendula nodded. “And what do you like in people?”  
“How they dress, how they style their hair, what kind of jewellery they wear, which tattoos they commission… Basically, what they do with their bodies.”  
“Your taste is less dirty than mine.”  
“Not at all. Hunger remains a hunger.”  
Vendula took her scarf off and crumpled it in both hands. “Even after death?”  
Wrocmira walked closer and sat down next to the bonfire, her movement resembling a flight and fall of a dandelion seed. “You see, ghosts exist by clinging to their emotions and memories. I used to believe they had to be negative memories. All the stories of sorrowful or vengeful spirits only hid the truth from me: delight can preserve us as well. Thus… while I don’t experience lust anymore, I do feel accomplished…” She grinned. “When I recall… the nights with my beloved.”  
Vendula’s lips twitched. _S milovanou. She is one of us._  
“She was in this house, in flesh and later on, in breath. But she grew displeased with the world of the living, missed her family and servants… Even the memories upset her. It’s not just this room or my violin; our pets have been imprinted in our souls as well.”  
“Did she move on, then?”  
Wrocmira nodded. “I encouraged her to find inner balance. She’s Away now.”  
She wanted to ask but fear of the answer stopped her.  
“Well. It could be Heaven; it could be Hades; it could be one of the Nine Worlds. Nobody can identify the place.”  
“I see.”  
“And I shan’t go there to see for myself. With all these good memories surrounding me, I don’t need to.”  
Vendula kept wandering, gazing at the apparition. The conversation sharpened her mind and she began to distrust her urges.  
Wrocmira read that from her face. “What is stinging you?”  
“Oh, a lot. Your past wealth, past love, the age you’re frozen in, how your body is gone with no trace. I shouldn’t be giving you those Andersen stares. Several short-haired, sentimental sweethearts are looking for arms like mine, yet I haven’t connected with any of them.”  
“You should give in to patience.”  
“It isn’t that easy, especially not when…” She sighed. “I used to be in a relationship already. Her warmth can’t be replicated with a compress bag; none of my bedsheets will ever match her softness; even the most luscious hours felt cute and snug with her. ‘Patience;’ how many new hobbies I tried picking up to replenish my patience. But my body wasn’t born for patience; my body wants to hike, to stroll with pupils and show them local genera of trees, to dance zumba, to…” She stopped walking around. “And to talk excessively. Tell me when you’ve had enough.”  
Wrocmira blinked slowly like a cat. “Dismiss your insecurity. Your throat will tire before I have enough.”  
Vendula snickered and jested, “Wow, that immediately ended my insecurity, thank you.”  
The duo laughed sincerely.  
“Well, I should have expressed myself differently. Naturally, you will doubt yourself; regardless, you are my guest, you’ve clearly gathered more steam than you can contain, and your voice sounds charming. Sough to me, for it matches your lovely marine waves.”  
Vendula’s blush resembled the colour of fuchsias. “Uh… maybe don’t? I’m not-t used to flirting.”  
“Oh dear. Then, how would you reveal your passion in the past?”  
She shrugged. “Just like tonight.”


	3. Chapter 3

As far as Vendula knew, there was no thunder in the area anymore, only rain and soothing summer night. She couldn’t speak, having been broadcasting for hours about her school years, her goals and struggles as a teacher, her leisure as a teacher, her leisure as a butch, her former lover, her family’s views as influenced by the communist period – all of this interrupted by her explaining contemporary technology and queer history. Wrocmira listened with almost inhuman attention, memorising every detail, which allowed her to draw conclusions without Vendula’s help.  
The hiker felt euphoric. She looked into Wrocmira’s eyes: two pale opals with starry reflections. Above them, forelocks like flames; between them, the nose like an ancient column.  
“Thank you,” she managed to say, “Could you… please…?”  
The spectral sapphist stood up and swam away from the bonfire. “Witness my skill.”  
She summoned a vortex strong enough to pick Vendula, yet slow enough not to cause nausea. Distracted, but not terrified, she looked around and dangled her feet.  
Wrocmira flew towards her, took her blouse off and raised her shirt a little. Plenty short stretch marks covered the hiker’s skin like sparks of electricity. With a single caress upwards, the ghost analysed her side; it didn't tickle.  
Her lips felt like smoke from a candle, like bird down, like an apple petal.  
Vendula wanted to reach out with her tongue; she sensed on its tip that Wrocmira's steam-like body condensed. The contrast surprised her.  
As Wrocmira turned that impatient furnace on, her own hands grew colder and wetter; in return, the chill excited Vendula to the point where she moaned a smile.  
Travelling down her sides, tracing her belly, replying to her longing tongue, the vintage lover kept playing, amplifying the heat.  
Vendula forgot about the lack of ground under her feet. She was suspended in that surreal night, in the mesmerising spin, in the comfort she had been missing for years.

With her cheeks still blooming pink, the hiker landed and fixed her clothes. The duo kissed again; Wrocmira's dew ran down her lover's chin and fell on her shirt.  
When Vendula breathed easily again, Wrocmira exposed her shoulders. “You asked whether I could feel lust as a ghost, and I answered with semi-truth. The only successful method for me is to remember the sight and sensations from my earthly life, which means... I'd have to think about my sweetheart while you'd be satisfying me. A passive procedure of recalling. If you can forgive me such neglect, then you are free to tease me.”  
“What was her name? In case you yell it at climax or something.”  
“Asteria.”  
“Well then. Undress.”  
Undress she did, revealing more freckles and neatly trimmed hair.  
As Wrocmira reclined on the chair, Vendula realised her role would be less magical. Having taken a deep breath, she walked closer to her and began the most questionable sex in her life.  
Indeed, the spectral lover wasn't paying attention to Vendula. With her eyes closed and upper teeth gently showing, she was whirling, whispering, straightening her torso to bend it again, spreading her legs to close them again, completely entranced and... somehow, as those lowered eyebrows and blushing cheeks implied, as thankful as Vendula was mere minutes ago.  
She remembered what her climax used to feel like: a trot right after a race, the first bite into a plum right after harvest.  
Vendula traced her jawline, smearing the drops. "I'm glad to have witnessed this."  
Wrocmira bit her lower lip. "Likewise. I will cherish this night." She sat up and kissed Vendula; she meant to stand up afterwards but the butch followed her lips like a bee follows a flower in the wind. They resumed the passionate ritual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit version, optional: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25932334


	4. Chapter 4

Countless birds announced the break of dawn. Patches of sunlight were crawling across the floor. Vendula was sleeping on her rope and backpack next to smoking ashes. Wrocmira was supervising both. The transparent furniture had faded by her command.  
A wasp flew into the room.  
The aristocrat launched from her knees like a startled jellyfish. Her hands cupped the insect mid-air; it tried to break free, only to soak in the breathy body.  
Wrocmira left the manor house and rested the wasp on a rock, where it continued buzzing in confusion.  
“Stay,” she spoke as if to a dog. 

Vendula woke up a quarter later. She reached for her phone, turned it on and sent a text message. Then, she ate a protein bar and drank mineral water from a large bottle.  
“How are you feeling?” asked Wrocmira.  
“Huuungry,” she whined, “I’m trying to remember how far the closest shop is.”  
“Do you feel like fainting?”  
“Nuh, just mildly annoyed. One more bar and I’ll make it.”  
“Alright.”  
She glanced at the apparition and shivered. “Whoa, are you okay, though? Your neck looks swollen.”  
“Ah… It’s but a memory. I will go back to normal soon.”  
The hiker remained worried. “Dang. Must have hurt badly.”  
“May you never know.” She stroked the “injury” as if that would soothe it. “Listen… You’ve got some space in the bag, correct?”  
“Kinda. Keep going.”  
The ghost pointed. “This wall, once sturdy and not prominent, has two layers of bricks and a gap between. Count from the floor upwards, remove the ninth brick – any ninth brick, in fact. Take my wealth. If you don’t, you’ll leave it to be claimed by others.”  
Vendula nodded.

Once she found a loose brick, removing others came easy to her. She reached out and took out an ornament: a natural ruby crystal shaped into a rose and connected to a golden stem. Was it mere decoration or a tool that accompanied Asteria? She found the potential answer irrelevant.  
In the backpack did she fit the rose, two necklaces, five bracelets, a hairpin, and three brooches. She pushed the bricks back to their original places.  
Vendula stayed squatting, gazing at the wall.  
“What’s wrong?” whispered Wrocmira.  
“If only I didn’t have to leave.”  
She answered with a sigh and a pat. “Hey. As much as I would love to see you again, I also want you to bond with a living lady. Someone warm, who speaks a similar slang. Someone who will look deep in your eyes as you give her pleasure. Someone who, hopefully, will grow old with you.”  
The hiker fixed her position. “Nah, she doesn’t have to do any of those things. Even better if she doesn’t mind holding ice for me.”  
“Oh?”  
At last, she smiled. “That chill was the best. I low-key wish it lasted longer but I guess… I’d need proper ice for that.”  
“Be careful, it can cut.”  
She turned to Wrocmira. “Uh… _how_ do you know?”  
The ghost raised her chest again, her protruded stare preceding the blush.  
Vendula wheezed, laughing; then, she pinched herself to stop. “Go ahead, it’s the twenty-first century.”  
She hid her face, spreading fingers to expose her eyes. “We had had an accident.”  
“How serious?”  
“Well… She healed. But it ruined the night.”  
“Naturally.” She sighed. It took her seconds to stand up. When she walked closer, Wrocmira uncovered her face. Vendula kissed the transparent curtain of spectral lips; she stayed for two seconds before stepping back.  
“Thank you.”  
“My pleasure. So long.”  
The sea-haired butch marched towards the exit. She took one last look at the late lover, na milovanou, as sunlight shone bright around her, making her look like a majestic character on stained glass.

At her hometown, an expert examined the loot. Only one bracelet turned out to be incomplete and, thus, of lower value. Vendula didn’t mind; its “damage” was simply lack of several gems in its sockets; besides, the potential profit that would come with the rest of the items satisfied her beyond imagination. The expert concluded his service by recommending ordinary and prestigious auctions.  
She put the bracelet on. She thought of that patient, focused facial expression, the graceful movement, the vases full of hyacinths, the embarrassed giggles, and such contrasting confidence in erotic skilfulness. The features to look for – and look forward to.  
She sang quietly, messing the pronunciation, “Igen, jött egy gyöngyhajú lány… Álmodtam vagy igaz talán?”

**Author's Note:**

> The lyrics; click on "Pokaż tłumaczenie" for a translation: https://www.tekstowo.pl/piosenka,budka_suflera,jest_taki_samotny_dom.html


End file.
